


I Melt With You

by merelypassingtime



Series: Just Like Heaven [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 80s Music, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Puzzles, Sequel, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-12-09 19:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: Twenty years after their first date Greg leaves Mycroft a new series of puzzles to follow on Valentine's Day. A sequel to Head Over Heels.





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft stretched luxuriously in the warm bed, enjoying the rare treat of being able to wake up slowly and not to an alarm. He was disappointed to feel the bed beside him was empty but not surprised. Greg often had to keep odd hours at his job and Mycroft was well use to waking alone.

It was several more minutes of dozing before his drowsy mind woke sufficiently to remind him that today was actually not a day he was suppose to be having a lay in. Panic had him sitting bolt upright instantly and he reached out to his nightstand for the alarm clock that should have woken him so he could check the time. He narrowly avoided knocking over the heavily laden breakfast tray that was resting in front of it.

For a second he just stared at the tray in confusion, his brain still half asleep. Then he noticed the folded white note card resting over the tea cup. Upon picking it up he recognized Greg's bold, slightly messy handwriting across the front of the card:

_Even asleep you're a work of art_  
_Today you've no cause for an early start_  
_Anthea, being such a great clerk_  
_cleared your schedule of all work_  
_So Happy Anniversary sweetheart!_

**From:**  
_Your Secret Admirer_

Curious, he opened the card to find that there was a rewritable CD taped inside, labeled in black marker, 'My's Mix.'

Grinning foolishly he got out of bed to put the CD in their player. The room filled with music as he settled back down to eat his breakfast a familiar song playing out over the speakers:

_I'll stop the world and melt with you_  
_You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time_  
_There's nothing you and I won't do_  
_I'll stop the world and melt with you_

He hummed along, reflecting that his long association with Greg had done much to educate him on eighties music if not on any other particular genre as he propped himself up against the headboard and moved the breakfast tray over his lap. 

Looking more closely at it presented him with a puzzle. The breakfast was quite good, yoghurt, fruit cut with the sort of geometrical precision Mycroft coveted, toast, and jam, but it was also not the full English fry up that Greg usually did for their anniversary. The note and cleared schedule indicated that Greg had planned the breakfast long in advance, but the tray full of food best served cold said that he had never intended to be here for the breakfast himself which was exceedingly odd. 

Greg had always been a dyed in the wool romantic and since their very first anniversary Mycroft had been beset with flowers, fine chocolates, and all the other traditional trappings of courtship every February 14th. He had always secretly loved it even while he tried to pretend to be above all the silly sentiment. 

Now he had to wonder if perhaps he had pretended too well and the thought worried him. Suddenly the dinner reservations and surprise he had planned for Greg that evening seemed so insufficient for the man who had done so much for him over the last twenty years. Especially now that he found himself sitting alone in their bed on their anniversary, eating a cold breakfast, and with an empty day ahead of him. But no, Greg surely knew that he loved him beyond all reason. Didn't he? 

The tray of food looked considerably less appealing and the background music lost a lot of its associated joy in the wake of these thoughts, but Mycroft still set to eating, determined to not let Greg's efforts go unappreciated. Besides, he consoled himself, he now had a whole day to step up his arrangements for that evening.

Thinking about that he reached for his mobile phone to call Anthea, wanting to get her input on great romantic ideas and maybe double check a couple of work items were being handled correctly. Not that he didn't trust Anthea's competence but he had always had trouble delegating. However, when his hand touched the place his mobile should have been charging there was instead another card. This one was red and cut into a heart:

_Roses are red_  
_Today you'll do no work_  
_So do as I've said_  
_And relax, you berk_

Mycroft felt a bit of tension leave him. Trust Greg to have thought of everything. And while the lack of a mobile would be annoying, it was not insurmountable. He tucked back into his food while making his plans.

Almost an hour later he was putting the final touches to those plans as he finished dressing when the CD came to its last track, and instead of another love song he was treated to the driving beat of The Clash:

_London calling to the far away towns_

Then the song abruptly shifted and he looked up sharply at the CD player as a much different song began playing almost in the middle of a line:

_Feeling unknown_  
_And you're all alone_  
_Flesh and bone_  
_By the telephone_  
_Lift up the receiver_  
_I'll make you a believer_

The third transition was even more jarring, cutting to only two words sung considerably faster:

_Eleven O'clock_

The CD ended with the quiet whirr of the disc spinning to a stop and Mycroft stared at it for a moment before he broke into a relieved chuckle. Because of course Greg would never settle for a cold, lonely breakfast for him, of course he would pull out all the stops for their twentieth anniversary. Of course he would clear Mycroft's day, then give him a puzzle to solve with it, and of course that puzzle would be a call back to their very first date. Mycroft felt his heart swell with so much love for his impossible man that his chest actually hurt with it.

When he could stop laughing and had his wits back about him Mycroft padded over to the CD player and replayed the last track several times, setting the clue firmly in his mind. He could not help but grin the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My's Mix:
> 
> I Melt With You, by Modern English  
> Right Here Waiting, by Richard Marx  
> Always, by Bon Jovi  
> Almost Paradise, by Mike Reno and Ann Wilson  
> Faithfully, by Journey  
> In Your Eyes, by Peter Gabriel  
> The Longest Time, by Billy Joel  
> And I Will Always Love You, by Whitney Houston  
> Together Forever, by Rick Astley  
> Heaven, by Bryan Adams  
> Will You Still Love Me, by Chicago


	2. Chapter 2

When he was sure he had the message such as it was memorized Mycroft restarted the CD then spent a few minutes double checking the breakfast tray but found no further clues or instructions about the call he was to expect. Given that he had to assume that it would be coming to him here at home.

Mycroft glanced at the time, surprised to see it was almost a quarter after ten o'clock. It wasn't like him to sleep so late and even less like him to have not noticed the time directly when he did wake. Still he was relieved to have only forty-five minutes until 'London' called, whoever that turned out to be.

A list of things he could do to fill that time began spooling out in his mind, tidying up his dishes, some paperwork he had brought home to review, episodes of EastEnders to catch up on, but first he thought he would change clothes. He had gotten dressed very much on autopilot and only now really noticed that he had put on one of his normal three piece suits. It would have been fine for a day of work and passable at the restaurant they had reservations for that night but now he doubted it would be right for chasing around after whatever Greg had planned.

He found himself standing in front of the wardrobe looking over the almost embarrassingly large selection and trying to decide just what would be best for an unknown sort of day. Would he be outside? How much walking would there be? Would they still be dining out that night? He sighed and told himself he was over thinking things, that he was being as ridiculous as he had been the night before their first date fretting over his clothes like a teenager with a crush. 

Actually, that gave him an idea. He looked through the precisely hung and color coded shirts until he found one the right shade of blue, then he pulled a grey jumper to match it. A part of him wondered if Greg would even remember the outfit's significance but it really didn't matter, Mycroft knew. Besides, he though as he shed the confining suit and put on the more comfortable outfit, the parallel would be fairly obvious with the last piece he planned to wear. 

He rummaged around the back of the wardrobe until he found and a hanger covered in a plastic garment bag. Taking it out, he unzipped the front and removed a very worn and often repaired denim jacket, the same one that had been his since that first date. He pulled it on and smoothed his hands down the denim, the feeling bringing back a wealth of memories. Even after all these years and with the fat he had worked so hard to shed as a young man creeping back it still fit and Mycroft blessed Greg's always broad, rugby playing shoulders. 

He chose a pair of shoes, again more for comfort than for style and put his wallet and keys into his trouser pocket, feeling the oddness of being without a mobile for what he suspected would not be the last time that day. Then he hesitated over the last item he had thought to carry that day, uncertainty again getting the better of him.

Leaving the music playing he left the bedroom and made his way downstairs and into his office. There he walked to one of the bookshelves lining the world and took a thick leather bound edition of The Decline and Fall of The Roman Empire off the shelf, opening to reveal a hollowed out space in the center. He ignored the small caliber gun he kept there for emergencies and instead reached out to take the midnight blue velvet jeweler's box hidden there. Even though he knew well the contents he still flipped the box open and looked down at the thick platinum gold band, the one he had planned to surprise Greg with that evening at dinner.

It had been the careful work of years getting the Civil Partnership Act passed and it had taken an especially hard push to get it enacted before their anniversary but it was not work he begrudged. The law itself was more than worth the effort just because it was the right thing to do, but when Mycroft pictured being able to finally marry the amazing man he had shared so much of his life with, of being able to introduce him as his husband and have the law and everyone recognize their union, his chest felt tight with emotion. 

But now Greg had hijacked the day for his own game, and while Mycroft was not mad at the change it did leave him in an awkward position in regards to his own plan. He had no way of knowing how or even if he would be able to fit his own proposal into day anymore or if it would be rude to steal the thunder from Greg's program by doing so. Should he bring the ring just in case an opportunity presented itself? Should he just leave the ring here until he had a better idea what the day would hold? He just couldn't decide.

In the end it was the telephone ringing that made up his mind. He had not realized he had been standing there so long staring at the ring gleaming against the plush velvet and the ringing surprised him out of his revelry. Without conscious thought he snapped the box closed and slipped it into he pocket as he walked towards the desk and the phone.

He sat down in his chair and took a second to steady himself before picking up the receiver and saying cautiously, “Hello?”

“Hello, this is Mad Mike calling with a special song request for you!”

“Mike? Mike Stanford?”

“Well yeah, but I think I am suppose to pretend this is still my old radio show.”

“I won't hold it against you if you break character,” Mycroft said dryly. “How have you been Mike? It has been years.”

“It has been too long! Could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard from Greg. I've been good. Yourself?”

“Doing well, too.” There was a long pause then Mycroft continued, “Sorry, I'd love to catch up but my mind is rather on other things today.”

“Oh, of course. Let me give you your message and then maybe we can all get together later all, right?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Great! Well, let's get on with the special request then.” There was a slight break then Mike read out, “'Twenty years since I first checked you out and I am looking forward to two hundred and one more years, but anniversaries are also about remembering the past. So if you are willing to do the math you can find S-U-M, it actually says in parenthesis for me to spell that out, one who was totally there since the beginning.'”

Mycroft sighed, “That was awful.” Even to his own ears he sounded more amused then truly exasperated.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed with a chuckle, “I love Greg to death but God help us when he tries to be funny. Here, I get to play a bit of a song for you too.”

There was a second of silence broken by a few notes of music, then quiet again punctuated by the soft susurrus of tracks being skipped on a CD. Mycroft counted seven jumps before another song started, this one with a bright burst of saxophone. After a long, dramatic intro a male voice sang “Winding your way down on Baker Street, Light in your head and dead on your feet...” before the song cut off again and Mike came back on. “That was all you really needed to hear I am told.”

“Okay. Mind if I ask what song that was.”

“I am not sure if that is in the rules.” Mike hedged.

“You know I can just search for it online anyway, save me a couple of minutes.”

“Fine, it was Baker Street, by Gerry Rafferty.”

“But what does that mean?”

“No idea, mate. All I know is that if I gave my wife schoolwork for Valentine's Day she would be angry not excited.”

Mycroft smiled, admitting wryly, “Greg has always known just the way to my heart was through my head.”

“Well, better through the head than through other bit of your anatomy.” Mike said with a laugh. “I'll just leave you to it, shall I? But I'll want the whole story when we get together to catch up.”

“Of course Mike, and thanks for taking the time.”

“No problem, good luck!” He said, ringing off.

Mycroft set the phone back on its cradle and reread the message from where he had written it on his desk blotter, puzzled. Just who could be the old friend he would meet on Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

221 Baker Street was not what Mycroft expected. He had thought it would be a coffee shop or pub, somewhere you could meet for a chat but the plain black door was clearly not to any sort of business. He looked at the sandwich place next door and wondered if he could have done the math wrong or misunderstood the clue.

Only one way to find out, he told himself and stepped up to the door. The large brass numbers proclaimed this to be 221B, but there were three doorbells attached to the frame labeled A, B, and C. Unsure which one to ring and cursing Greg for not being specific enough he settled for knocking sharply on the door.

Several long moments passed, giving him plenty of time for doubt to take hold before the sound of footsteps and the door swung open to reveal a short, older woman in an outdated floral dress and a frilly apron.

“Mrs Hudson!” he exclaimed with delight.

“Oh Mycroft, dear! You’re early.” she said, pulling him into a fierce hug. The additional step up into the building evened out their heights and Mycroft felt curiously small and childlike. To his embarrassment he felt tears forming in his eyes and his throat was choked with emotion. When she pulled back she kept both hands on his shoulders and beamed at him. If she noticed the tears she was polite enough to ignore them, instead favoring him with a pat on the cheek as she tutted, “Well, the scones haven't even gone in yet, but I’ll make you a cup of tea and I have some little sandwiches in.”

She led him into the foyer, passed a stairway that lead upwards, through an open door marked A, and into a small sitting room. Mycroft peered around it, surprised by what he saw or, rather, by what he failed to see. In the years he had known her at uni she had always surrounded herself with things. It hadn’t been clutter exactly, she was too orderly for it to be called clutter, but her office had been full of objet D'art and more dollies than seemed entirely natural. This room was downright spartan in comparison, with only a comfortable looking couch, a couple of end tables, and a pile of boxes along one wall.

Mrs Hudson noticed his attention and waved around the room apologetically as they walked through to the kitchen, saying, “Forgive the boxes and the mess. I’m moving a bit of my stuff in but really I’m just visiting here. Carlo and I are still living most of the year in Florida. It’s just lucky I was here signing the paperwork to close on this place when Greg called. No idea how he found the number.”

“Oh, he’s still with the police and still willing to bend the rules when he wants.” Mycroft said, sitting down at the small table tucked into the corner of the cozy kitchen. This room was more what he had expected. The fixtures were all old and worn, but the cabinets were full of food and the counters covered in brightly colored canisters and other kitchen miscellanea. He felt instantly at ease.

Mrs Hudson bustled around, flipping on the kettle and retrieving the tea set from the draining board, chatting as she went, “Don't even pretend you don't love it when he plays the bad boy. Remember I was there the first time he pulled up on that motorcycle he used to have. You went all weak at the knees and I thought I was going to have to catch you.”

“You exaggerate.”

“I don't, I saw you wiping a bit of drool away. And you are clearly still hanging on to that James Dean jacket he gave you.”

“Well, he hung on to that motorcycle even though it hasn't run in years. It is rusting quietly away under a tarp in our back garden.”

“Sentimental fools, the pair of you.” she said fondly, struggling to unwrap the cellophane on a new box of tea. “I’m so glad you’re still together after all these years. Mind you, I never doubted for a moment that you would be.”

Mycroft hummed noncommittally, it would have been nice if he had been so sure at the time. Thinking about the ring now in his pocket he wished he was so sure even now.

“Don't be coy, everyone could see how soppy you two were for each other from the start.”

“We were not-”

She cut him off, “Yes, you were. Absolutely ass over tea kettle in love. He was more obvious about it, always leaving you little messages and flowers, but you were ever bit as bad. Don't think everyone didn't know just who got that terrible Freire woman fired when she tried to fail Greg for not responding to her advances.”

The kettle was boiling merrily at this point. She clicked it off and poured the hot water into the teapot, continuing, “Or how he got that 'scholarship' when he was struggling. You know it was the only two years that there was a grant for football playing criminology majors, why didn't you just call it ‘The Lestrade Fund?’”

“I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about.” Mycroft said primly.

“Of course not, dear.” she said, setting the assembled tea tray down on the table. “Now, let that steep while I finish up these scones, then we'll have a proper long chat.”

They talked for more than an hour, reminiscing about the library, catching up, and trading stories.

“-Needless to say,” Mrs Hudson said, wrapping up a story about her first summer in Florida, an alligator, the UF football team, and a stripper bar called The Peach Pit, “No one believed me until I had the photos developed, not that I blame them. I was glad to have the pictures myself, I can tell you, those football players were quite fit.”

Mycroft laughed more than was polite and ended up choking on his scone. He had to take a large sip of his now cold tea to stop his cough. When he was back in control, he decided to take the opportunity to segue into a more sensitive topic. He started, “Still enjoying Florida then? I’d rather hoped you would be back for good.”

“Oh, no. Florida is too lovely this time of year. It’s so warm and so green, without the biting cold that makes my hip ache. Of course in a couple of months the heat will be unbearable. You take the good with the bad, I guess.”

“Is that why you are setting up a place here, to escape the heat?” Mycroft put a bit of emphasis on the last phrase. He was aware of many dark things about Mrs Hudson's new husband, having read the man's entire Interpol file when he heard that Mrs Hudson was married again. It was only Greg's insistence that Mrs Hudson was able to take care of herself that had kept him from sending a team to abduct the man and possibly 'lose' him in some dark, dank high security cell.

“That’ll be a blessing, yes. And, well, Carlos's business is having some trouble, grand jury indictments and such, so I talked him into investing in some real estate here in London. Just to diversify our holdings, you know.” she said, without meeting his eyes.

Mycroft had wondered just how much Mrs Hudson knew about her husband's line of business. Now, he let himself really look at her and observe all the small details he routinely blocked out when he was trying to have a normal conversation. He noted the deep lines of exhaustion that etched her face, her tense posture, and the way her eyes flickered around the room as if checking for danger and guessed that whatever she might or might not have known at the beginning of her marriage, she knew all of it now.

Still, when she did meet his eyes her gaze was hard and full of determination. “We thought we'd keep this place in my name though to avoid taxes and such since I have the duel citizenship. Don't think I didn't notice how easily that was granted to me by the way, thank you.” she said, patting his hand.

He easily read between the lines of her statement, things were getting bad and Mrs Hudson was preparing a way out. Maybe Greg had been right about her taking care of herself. Still, he couldn’t help but interfere a bit.

“Well, if you wouldn't mind repaying the favor it occurs to me that getting my brother Sherlock out of the country for a while would be a great service to me. He’s been having some troubles with sobriety and boredom. Maybe a change of scenery would do him good and I have it on good authority that Florida is lovely this time of year.”

“Oh, I don't know Mycroft. It’s not the best time for a house guest.”

“I assure you that he’s quite independent: frustratingly so. And of course I'd wouldn't presume to force him on anyone as a house guest. I could set him up in a flat or something. If you could just keep an eye on him for me, he has lately taken to solving crimes when he isn’t too high.” Here he tilted his head slightly, making his tone more pointed, “He’s helped Greg put away several very dangerous criminals, murders and drug dealer and the like.”

“Oh, I see.” she said and from her tone he was fairly sure that she really did see.

“Yes, if he could just find a challenge to occupy his mind and keep him away from the drugs he could be a great help to mankind.”

“I suppose I could just keep an eye on him...”

“You wouldn't regret it,” he said, then favored her with a wry smile. “Although it pains me to admit it, he is almost as smart as I am.”

“Then I’m surprised that he’s not running the whole world as well.” She returned his smile as she stood up from the little table, moving over to the oven. “Another scone?”

“Actually, as loathe as I am to cut our talk short, I was wondering if Greg had left you with a message or clue to pass on to me?”

“Of course! I’d almost forgotten,” she checked the clock on the stove. “And it’s nearly two. I promised him I’d have you out the door and on your way by now.”

She changed course from the oven towards the refrigerator, where she took a large red paper heart out from under a magnet shaped that was like the state of Florida and boldly proclaimed, 'Time flies when you're having Rum!'

“Here’s the note. He also left something else. Let me go grab them.” she said, handing him the heart.

Eagerly, Mycroft read the lines written on the card:

_Hope you and Mrs Hudson enjoyed your chat_   
_Because now you'll make up for all the time you sat_   
_Finding the next step won't be a walk in the park_   
_Head to the north and you won't miss your mark_   
_Just remember that even when we are apart_   
_You are always the Regent of my heart_   
_Across the boating lake, on the Holme Green_   
_A token you'll find where bands can be seen_

He was reading it through a second time when Mrs Hudson reappeared holding, of all things, a pair of his trainers.

“Greg was worried that you wouldn't be wearing good shoes for walking so he left these here for you.”

Mycroft looked at his Italian leather loafers, which, while comfortable, were far from good walking shoes. “How well he knows me.”

He quickly changed shoes, now impatient to be back on his way. Still, he took the time to give Mrs Hudson his mobile number, “Go ahead and call it now. My assistant will probably answer and you can set up a time for you to return my loafers.” He paused, then he added with a grin, “Oh, and I guess we can take you out to dinner too.”

“Of course, dear.” she said, walking with back to the foyer.

He stopped in front of the door and stooped to give the short woman another hug before he opened the door out to the street.“It’s been marvellous seeing you. I'll be looking forward to telling you all about the rest of my quest at our dinner.”

“I can't wait to hear about it. Greg wouldn't tell me a thing when he was here.”

“He is insufferable that way.”

“He isn't the only one,” She replied fondly. “Goodbye dear. Good luck.”

“Thanks. Mrs Hudson. Have a good evening,” he said stepping out into the weak afternoon sun.

He turned to wave one last time at the figure in the doorway then he set off north toward the end of Baker Street and Regent’s Park.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My undying thanks to my lovely beta no-reason-at-all, who willingly jumped into the middle of this story in a noble effort to improve my poor prose. There should be medals for such selfless bravery.  
> And my apologies for the long wait for this chapter. I'll offer no excuses, only beg your forgiveness.

It was only a short distance from Mrs Hudson’s comfortable kitchen to the nearest entrance to Regent’s Park. Mycroft walked at a brisk pace, partly out of excitement for the next puzzle piece, but also because he was nervous. It was clear that Greg was working on a set timeframe, and Mycroft didn’t want to fail him by missing the next deadline.

Mrs Hudson had implied that he was already late leaving her house, and he was facing a unknown number of riddles scattered around a rather large and unfamiliar park. Somehow, while balancing two stressful careers, both of them prone to odd hours and sudden emergencies, he and Greg had not found as much time for long romantic walks in the park as either would have liked. Now Mycroft regretted that, and he hoped that Greg had not overestimated him.

At least the first clue seemed simple enough, and after crossing the bridge over the boating lake Mycroft took the left-hand path towards the open field the Bandstand stood in.

He wondered if Greg had chosen the first location intentionally, knowing Mycroft would be familiar with it. Planning the ten year memorial of the bombing there had been one of the first big tasks in his then new position as under-secretary for the Ministry of Royal Parks. Mycroft had worked non-stop for weeks coordinating the catering, music, and security.

He still remembered standing next to the lectern during the ceremony, only half listening to the Minister read the speech Mycroft had written. He had been exhausted, vaguely dissatisfied with how the flower arrangements had turned out, and dishearten to be there alone. Greg had tried to secure the day off to attend, but he still didn’t have the seniority, and Mycroft, knowing there was nothing to be done, had hidden his disappointment behind a calm mask. 

That disappointment had still been with him throughout the ceremony, despite his best efforts at pushing out of his mind. It had been what he was thinking about when his gaze had been caught by one of the security detail surrounding the small structure. A second glance had confirmed that the police officer was indeed Greg, his face suitably grave but his eyes warm and full of love and pride. The power of that look had hit Mycroft like a physical force. It had been all he could do to keep his own face still and not beam at the handsome man, who had found a way to come to Mycroft's event after all just because he knew how important it was to him.

An echo of that love struck Mycroft as he came within sight of the Bandstand, and he quickened his pace to reach it, already searching for his next clue, in whatever shape or form it would take.

It was not difficult to find. Indeed, he saw the splash of bright white attached to one of the columns from yards away and walked directly towards it. When he reached it, he found that it was a length of plastic crime scene tape, tied in a neat bow and holding a red long-stemmed rose to the support. 

He smiled, wishing he had thought to bring a camera because the image before him was just so very Greg. He did make a point of locking it into his mind before he moved to untie the bow. When he did, another red heart fluttered from underneath it. Mycroft shifted the rose and the tape to one hand so he could reach down to pick it up and read the next quatrain.

_If all the world’s a stage and everyone a player_  
_I bless your entrance to my life with every prayer_  
_And when the audience stands for your ovation_  
_Under one seat you’ll find your quest’s continuation_

Another easy one; Mycroft sighed in relief. Only last summer he and Greg had been to the Open Air Theatre to see As You Like It. Tucking the heart and tape into pocket of the denim jacket, he held the rose gently as he walked back to the path that led to the Inner Circle.

He was not surprised to find the gates to the theatre open, and it confirmed that Anthea had aided Greg beyond the mere clearing of his schedule. He probably owed her another raise for this, he thought, turning the corner from the tree-lined entryway into the amphitheater itself. Then he stopped, confronted by the many rows of empty seat and unsure where to start his search. 

It was by no means a large theatre and he knew that a row by row search would not take more than a few minutes, a quarter of an hour at the most. However, he also knew that Greg would have put as much thought into the seat number as he had put into the rest of today’s puzzles. Mycroft could figure it out if he tried; that made a blind search cheating.

He started towards the seats they had occupied during the play, but he came to a stop after only a few steps. Somehow, that didn’t quite fit. For a minute he stood, pondering the possibilities.

When the answer came to him, it was embarrassingly simple. Steps now sure, he walked to the second row, near center stage. As he’d known there would be, another section of police tape held a red rose to seat B-9, Mycroft couldn’t help the soppy grin that invaded his face at Greg’s sentimentality.

The tape joined the first one in his pocket and the rose was added to the one in his hand as he read the next heart.

It was nearing three o’clock when Mycroft left Queen Mary’s Garden headed to the Japanese Garden Island. He had five roses now and was profoundly grateful that Greg had provided trainers for this trek. He just hoped that Greg hadn’t been ambitious enough to hide the whole dozen.

When he rounded a corner in the small thicket of trees surrounding his next destination, he knew he needn’t have worried. At the center of the rocky island there was a small area cordoned off with a uniformed officer standing next to it. For a second his heart leaped, but it was fleeting. Even from this far off he could see that the officer was clearly not Greg, but rather one of the PCs he worked with: Donovan, he thought her name was. He wasn’t entirely sure, as his memories of the Met’s New Year’s Eve party were a bit hazy, made so by too much cheap rum and by the intoxicating presence of a tipsy and decidedly handsy Greg.

From the slight smirk on the woman’s face as he approached, he wondered if she was recalling that night too. He willed away the blush creeping onto his face and hid his embarrassment behind a calm mask. 

“Constable Donovan,” he said, nodding his head at her.

“Mr Holmes,” she nodded back. “You just missed Greg. He was so sure you’d be another twenty minutes at least and he had to scuttle away pretty quickly.”

Ah, he thought, that explained the smirk. He relaxed just a bit, and it was in a more natural tone that he answered, “Well, I do hate to be inconvenient. Shall I take another turn around the park to allow him time to finish?”

“Nah, he was just stressing over the little details anyway. Besides, if he is going to endlessly brag about how clever you are, he shouldn’t be surprised when you’re too smart for him.”

Mycroft felt the blush return with a vengeance. He knew that Greg talked about them more openly then Mycroft could, but Greg’s obvious pride in him never failed to warm his heart. “Indeed,” was all he said. “I am sure we both appreciate you being here to aid in his humility.”

She grinned at him. “Well, it really isn’t that big a job. Besides, he arranged for me to have the evening off if I helped him. So, if you don’t mind…” She trailed off, gesturing behind her.

He looked over her shoulder for the first time and blinked at what he saw. 

On the ground in the sectioned off space was the picnic rug they’d bought for an outing to the seaside once and then never used again. Now it had a human silhouette drawn on it in broad, blocky lines of red tape--an unmistakably chalk outline like the ones found in movies. The only difference was this one had large red Xs where one would expect eyes to be and a heart shape in the center of the torso. Also, a picnic hamper was laid on one side near the end of one of the outstretched limbs, making it appear that the stick-arm was holding the handle. 

Mycroft looked back at Donovan, one eyebrow raised quizzically. She smirked again. “There’s a note that explains it. Sorta.”

She held up the tape so Mycroft could duck under it. He skirted the edge of the rug, going directly for the hamper. As Donovan had said, there was another red heart resting on the side of the overturned basket under the sixth rose.

_Dining at a crime scene seemed only right_  
_Since you stole my heart at very first sight_  
_In celebration here’s a meal tasty and sweet_  
_As my life’s been a picnic from when we did meet_  
_I hope Mrs Hudson’s treats didn’t hamper your appetite_

Conscience of his audience, Mycroft kept his face still even though it badly wanted to break into a soppy smile. A glance at the knowing expression the waiting constable was giving, and he knew he wasn’t fooling her in the slightest. He quickly dropped his gaze back to the overturned basket.

“And am I expected to sit here and eat this while you guard me?” he asked. The few people out strolling through the park were casting curious looks at the police tape, and he knew it was only a matter of time before they began gathering around. The thought of eating in front of them all was less than appealing.

“Fuck, I hope not. I still have my own date to get ready for tonight. Just grab your basket, and I’ll clean up the scene and text Anthea. She’ll have a car waiting for you just over there at the main entrance,” she said, nodding her head towards the south.

“Will she?” Mycroft arched his brow again.

“Yeah, but then she is done for the night. She promised me.”

“Ah.” This time he didn’t hide his smile, before he forced it into a stern frown. “Well, I do expect you to treat her like the lady she is.”

She gave him a cheeky grin. “Ah, where’s the fun in that?”

Mycroft deepen his frown in a way he hoped reminded the younger woman that he had people to hide bodies for him.

“What? You her big brother now?” When he kept frowning, she rolled her eyes, “Fine. Don’t worry about us. Greg’d kill me for distracting you.”

He nodded, and picked up the hamper, feeling the contains sift as he righted it. Donovan held the tape up for him again as he stepped back out onto the main path. 

Now that he had the next clue in his hands, he was impatient to read it, even if he had a fairly good idea where it would lead. Still he took the time to thank the constable for her help. She was as eager as he was to move on, so the parting was mercifully brief, allowing Mycroft to retreat to a nearby bench with his basket. 

Looking inside he was unsurprised to find it contained covered plates of cheeses and meats among other things, an exact mirror of the meal he had found on that first hunt, right down to the envelope at the bottom, bearing a single line of text:

**I would be on top of the world if you’d join me tonight at the Starlight Cinema, five o’clock.**

Inside there was indeed a ticket for a showing of Casablanca, with seating to begin at five.

He started to check his pocket watch and remembered he didn’t have his waistcoat on. Without his mobile he had no way of knowing the time. Odd that he hadn’t noticed that until now. 

A passing tourist was able to provide that it was half three, earlier than Mycroft had thought but later than he would have liked. He abandoned any thought of trying to stop back by the house. He somewhat regretted not having the opportunity to freshen up a bit, he trusted that whatever Greg had planned, he’d planned it well enough to bring a change of clothes if one was needed.

Right now, though, he had time to enjoy his meal before he would have to find the no doubt waiting car. He took the lid off the container of sliced deli meats, thinking as he did that he should have brought the mix CD with him to listen to while he ate.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the amazing no-reason-at-all for all the hard word betaing this for me. :)

The car deposited Mycroft in the middle of a trendy block in SoHo. He stepped out onto a pavement already crowded, primarily with people in their twenties dressed for a night on the town. Standing there, he felt exposed in his scuffed trainers and fraying denim, the protective armor of his well-tailored suit stripped away.

He pulled the collar closer around his neck, taking comfort in the lingering presence of Greg that still imbued the jacket, and straightened his spine. His mask of superior indifference settled back on his face, and he coldly looked up and down the row of boutiques and gastropubs, searching for the theatre. 

He didn’t see one.

Puzzled, he looked again for any sign of a marquee or box office, but he looked in vain. He half-turned back towards the car, hating to appear anything less than completely in command but uncertain enough to ask the driver if this was the right address. It was already pulling away, taking the half full picnic hamper with it into the London twilight.

Mycroft was reaching for the envelope containing the ticket so that he could check the address when the flicker of a neon sign turning on drew his attention. 

Starlight Cinema was spelt out in jazzy blue letters above an otherwise innocuous battered metal door. As he stepped closer, he saw thousands of tiny silver stars were painted on the black surface. Unsure just what sort of theater could fit behind one narrow door, he turned the knob and stepped inside.

The narrow hallway that greeted him seemed unpromising at first, but as he begin the walk down it he was comforted to find the frames lining the walls contained movie posters. Perhaps he was in the right place after all. It was with more confidence that he pressed the call button for the elevator he found at end of the hall. The choice from there was simple as the elevator only had two floor options, and he pressed the round button marked R.

A short ride later, the doors opened to reveal a lush green garden. Mycroft blinked, not sure what he was expecting, but knowing that a lush green lawn bordered by a neat hedgerow was not it. The elevator doors closing pulled him back to reality and he reached out a hand to stop them.

As he stepped out of the elevator his mind began to absorb the details of the scene before him that had been lost before in his surprise. The grass was dotted sporadically with couples on brightly colored blankets, behind and to the left was a small building with a bar and concession stand, and immediately to his right was a woman standing behind a podium. 

Guessing her role, Mycroft reached again for his ticket and handed it over absently as he scanned the crowd for a familiar sliver head. It wasn’t hard to find, as the owner was enthusiastically waving a hand at him. 

Mycroft took his ticket stub back from the employee and walked towards the blanket Greg was sitting on. As he approached, Greg scrambled to his feet to greet him, the boyish grin Mycroft so adored lighting his face. When Mycroft reached him, he stepped in close, and, forgetting his usual shyness and hesitancy, he wrapped his arms around Greg in a firm hug, burying his face against the other man’s shoulder.

Mycroft felt Greg’s surprise at the hug in the slight tension in the muscles of his chest. It lasted for only a second before Greg wrapped arms around him in return, and his voice was full of affection tinged with concern as he asked, “Hey, there. What’s all this?”

“Sorry, sorry. I just… Today has been so lovely and then I saw you standing there, and I couldn’t begin to think of how to thank you-”

“Oh, love. No. You don’t need to thank me, I’m glad you had fun.” When Mycroft only hummed into his shoulder, Greg squeezed him tighter, and continued, “Besides, I am really relieved you showed up at all. I thought maybe my bad poetry finally chased you off for good.”

Mycroft chuckled at that, horrified by how wet and weepy the sound came out. He cleared his throat before saying gravely, “It was a closely run thing. You’re lucky you’re so handsome or I would be at home packing right now.”

“Very lucky indeed,” Greg agreed. He lightly kissed Mycroft’s cheek before he pulled away to sweeping an arm out towards the blanket. “Then I would have to find someone else to share these with.”

Glancing down, Mycroft sighed loudly in mock , “Strawberries and wine? So cliche.”

“What? I have some very good memories associated with strawberries.”

Mycroft felt a blush trying to creep onto his cheeks but said nothing. 

Greg chuckled, “Yeah, I can see you do too. Here, though, we’d better get seated. The movie’ll start soon.”

Settling down on the blanket, Mycroft surprised Greg again by staying close, nestling against Greg’s side and resting his head on a shoulder. Greg happily pulled him in close and used the other half of the blanket to cover them.

The sun was setting, casting a rosy glow to the sky and highlighting the few wispy clouds in golden orange. “How didn’t I know about this place?” Mycroft asked in a hushed voice, something about the moment making him want to whisper. “For that matter, how did you?”

“Oh—there was a murder here,” Greg replied. “The owner pushed his business partner off the roof. Very messy.”

“Oh, God!”

“I’m kidding! My brother-in-law works in the building.”

“The CPA? The one you hate?” 

“I don’t hate him, he’s just so bloody pompous.”

“Sherlock would say you have a fondness for pompous men.”

“Ah, love. You could never be pompous, you just happen to be that important,” Greg responded, with a brush of lips to Mycroft’s temple. “And handsome too. But anyway, at the Christmas eve lunch you so conventionally missed-”

“Hey! I can’t control when the Tunisian people are going to revolt!”

“Yeah, you can. And it meant you didn’t hear Richard’s hour long tirade about this place and how all the noise was disrupting his work and he was thinking about bringing a suit against the building.”

“Oh, however will I live with the disappointment of having missed that?” Mycroft said deadpan.

“Hopefully by enjoying the movie. Sorry I couldn’t find The Maltese Falcon, I was just lucky to get this close.”

“It’s fine, great in fact. When does it start?”

”When it gets dark enough, I guess.”

Mycroft felt the small velvet box in his pocket pressing up almost uncomfortably into his leg and wondered if this would be a good time for his question, here on top of the world and in the beautiful sunset with the man he loved.

It was almost right, but the presence of so many people made him hesitate. It wasn’t perfect, surrounded by strangers and before sitting through a movie. Still, Mycroft dithered. It was only when the fairy lights strung around the edges of the roof dimmed and the movie started that he let the idea go with some regret. He sighed and draped his arm across Greg’s chest as the previews began, hoping that another chance would present itself.

The movie was just as he remembered it from his single previous viewing, not bad, but not half as good as its reputation. It would never be his favorite movie, but watching it while being held against Greg’s solid warmth and fed strawberries went a long ways in improving it.

As the end card faded to black, the house lights came back up and the couples around them stirred. Mycroft sat up, trying not to feel old as his back protested two hours laying on the ground. He looked on with admiration and just a bit of envy as next to him Greg all but sprang to his feet without a trace of stiffness, and when he offered Mycroft a hand up, he might have pulled a bit harder than strictly necessary. Greg just smiled at him and started clearing the blanket while Mycroft tried to smooth out the wrinkles in his trousers.

“Want to use the loo while I pack up?” Greg asked.

“Yes, that would be best.”

“Great, then you can watch our stuff while I use it.”

A few minutes later, with both men refreshed and Greg carrying their blanket in a neat bundle, they joined the queue for the lift chatting amiably.

Greg said musingly, “I’ve never understood why Ilsa couldn’t have just stayed with Bogart. I mean, surely the French Resistance could’ve got along without her.”

“The Czech Resistance, but you do make a fair point. She was hardly playing a key role. Bogart and Laszlo had run off together, that might have been more of a problem.”

“I’d watch that movie.”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said slyly. “I think I rather agree more with this version, where he runs off with the police officer.”

Greg laughed and butted him with a shoulder as they finally boarded the lift.

It was only when they were back out on the pavement that it occured to Mycroft how late it was getting. He grabbed Greg’s right arm, and brought it up to eye level, checking the wristwatch there. It read eight twenty-one.

“Well, guess we’ll not be making our seven o’clock reservation at the Park Chinois,” he said dryly.

“Ah, no,” Greg answered, looking chagrined. “I actually canceled that ages ago and made different plans.”

Mycroft smiled. “I thought you had. Please, lead the way,” he said, offering his arm.

Greg returned his smile, and, linking arms with him, guided Mycroft into the night.


End file.
